


Listen to the Skies

by slodwick



Category: Smallville
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-23
Updated: 2002-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slodwick/pseuds/slodwick





	Listen to the Skies

_"Close your eyes,  
Listen to the skies...  
All is calm, all is well,  
Soon you'll hear Kris Kringle and the jingle bells._

 _Bringin' old toy trains, little toy tracks  
Little boy toys coming from a sack,  
Carried by a man dressed in white and red...  
Little boy, don't you think it's time you were in bed?"_

\- Roger Miller, **Old Toy Trains**  


  


* * *

  
The farmhouse settled in the night, creaking and sighing like an old man, adjusting and re-adjusting to ease an ache. All old houses did it, and Jonathan had spent enough late and sleepless nights in this one to know every groan personally. So, really, it was easy enough for him to distinguish between typical house sounds and footsteps.

Even very small footsteps.

He quickly finished drying his hands on the red Christmas towel that Martha still hauled out every year, the one she always chided him not to use, as it was meant only for decoration. It had the ugliest embroidered reindeer on the it, and Jonathan still thought it looked more like a moose. A very thin, rather lopsided moose. He hoped it would wear out soon.

He opened the bathroom door, a dim square of light falling into the hall. He could just see ten tiny toes illuminated at the far edge, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see the cowboy pajamas and a tattered red blanket gripped firmly in one chubby hand. He chose to ignore the thumb planted firmly in his son’s mouth. He was tired, and that was a lecture that could wait for another day.

"Daddy?" Quiet, almost too quiet to hear.

"What’s the matter, son?" He stepped out into the hall, and squatted down in front of the child. Clark was still small, yet Jonathan was often shocked now and then at how much he seemed to grow in just a few days. He sometimes wondered if this was just an alien thing, or if all parents were caught off-guard by their children growing up right before their eyes.

"I had a bad dream." Ah, yes. Now he could hear the slight tremble in the little voice, and there were tear tracks still wet on Clark’s cheeks. He reached out a hand to smooth Clark’s wild, bed-rumpled hair that stuck every which way, using his thumb to wipe what was left of the tears away.

"C’mere." He gathered Clark up in his arms, thankful that long days of hefting hay bales and bags of feed gave him the strength to lift the boy easily. He guessed it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t do it anymore, and he wondered if Martha still could. Though, she was stronger than she looked. He would have learned that lesson well in the past two years, had he not known it already.

Even now, a part of him thrilled a little at the feel of small, eager arms wrapping around his neck, and, while he would never admit it, it melted his heart every time that little head came to rest against the curve of his neck. There was magic in that, the feeling of love and something more, that, blood or not, he simply couldn’t deny.

A son. _His_ son.

As he trekked back down the darkened hallway to Clark’s room, Jonathan turned his head, whispering low directly into the child’s ear. "Everything’s okay now, Clark." He squeezed him a little, one hand patting reassuringly on his back, wide enough to span the distance between shoulder blades. "Besides, didn’t anyone tell you? Bad dreams aren’t allowed on Christmas Eve."

"They aren't?"

"Nope. You’re supposed to nestled snug in your bed, with visions of, uh..."

"Sugarplums, Daddy."

"Right! Visions of sugarplums dancing around the old noggin." He said softly, smiling at Clark's sleepy giggle. It was amazing. Clark had not only picked up English almost immediately, but his memory was astounding. Most things he only had to be told once, like that poem, and he would remember it exactly.

Nell Potter had been especially impressed the one time she had been invited to supper. Martha had been reading Clark his favorite story, and she had skipped a line. When Clark had corrected her, Nell was delighted; she had thought he could read, that Clark was an extraordinarily intelligent child. Martha hadn’t argued.

Reaching his room, Jonathan dodged the toys scattered on the floor, Matchbox cars and army men, a baseball glove and some strewn Legos, until he finally reached Clark’s bed. Once he moved Truman, Clark’s stuffed hippo, out of the way, he laid Clark and his little blanket in the bed, pulling the quilt back up under the boy’s chin.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, tucking the quilt in tight around Clark, all the way down to his feet, just the way Clark liked. "There. Just snug as a bug in a rug." A quick tweak of Clark’s nose, and he started to rise.

"Daddy?" The voice was sleepy, much like the drooping eyelids, and Jonathan knew Clark was fighting with what must be every ounce of super-strength to stay awake. He’d been up bright and early that morning, watching Martha bake Christmas cookies, drinking cup after cup of hot chocolate and apple cider, and helping Jonathan bring firewood in from behind the barn in his Red Flyer wagon. Not to mention the latter part of the afternoon spent playing in the snow with Pete Ross from down the road.

"Yes, son?"

"What are sugarplums?"

"Hmmmm," he said, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes for effect. "I honestly don’t know. We’ll have to ask your Mama in the morning. She's awful smart, you know." Jonathan leaned down and flipped the little switch for Clark’s tractor nightlight. A faint red glow lit the small area next to the bed. "But for now... you need to sleep, little man."

"But why, Daddy? I’m..." Small mouth opened wide in a yawn, eyes scrunched shut. "I’m not tired." The pointed lumps that were his feet were moving back and forth, a softly rasping slide under the blanket. "Can’t you stay? You could read me a story!"

"Now Clark, I know you’ve been a good boy this year, but you still have to be asleep when Santa comes, or he won’t stop here. You do want your presents, don’t you?"

"Uh huh! And I saw him! Mama and I saw him when we went to Grandville. He was right there on the street!"

"Oh, really? Did you get to tell him what you wanted?"

"Yup! I asked for a telescope! Greg’s brother has one and he let me look in it. It was so neat!"

"Well, you’ll have to go to sleep then." Jonathan leaned down, dropping a kiss on Clark’s forehead. "And when you wake up, we’ll see if Santa brought you that telescope or not, okay?"

He was secretly thrilled. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Clark’s face when he descended those stairs tomorrow morning and saw his present set up by the window. Martha had wanted to wrap it, but he’d insisted on setting it up. And not just so he could play with it, like she suggested.

"Okay, Daddy. But... can you stay? Please? Just a little while?"

"Sure, Clark. But just for a little while." Jonathan turned to lean against the small headboard, one leg dangling onto the floor, and propped a pillow behind his back. He wrapped an arm around Clark, and the boy snuggled in close, reaching up to grasp two fingers on Jonathan’s hand in his.

Just when he thought Clark might have fallen back asleep, he heard that little voice again, barely on this side of dreaming.

"Merry Christmas, Daddy."

"Merry Christmas, Clark."


End file.
